Haircut
by Sister-of-Tal-Kyrte
Summary: She is a lone woman in a tribe of men. Any sign of femininity is weakness.


**A/N: This takes place in the early days of Djaq's time in the gang. I love her and feel as if the BBC could have extrapolated so much more upon her character. She was so unique; she definitely deserves more than becoming the token woman in the gang. In my attempt to do her justice, I've tried to imagine how she adjusted to Sherwood forest. She's incredibly wary, but tough as nails. Anyways, please leave a review with your thoughts. I know the series ended long ago, but I just can't give up on it. Reviews remind me that there are more fans out there that are just as determined to never let this show die!**

Rain pounded through the overhanging trees, drenching the ragged group on the forest floor. The outlaws huddled under their oiled cloaks, moving into the caves for shelter.

"Blasted weather," Much muttered, wringing out the bottom of his shirt. "No one mentioned how sopping wet we would be if we chose to save England. At least the Holy Land was dry."

"The weather keeps us safe," Robin said. "No one wants to travel in the cold and wet."

"The water will be good for the wheat growing in the fields," Will add unimposingly. "We'll have less people to feed come harvest."

"If the sheriff doesn't tax it all," Allan said bitterly.

"That all sounds very fine, but I know you all hate the cold as much as I do." Much paused, "I can hear your teeth chattering." The soft clicking resounded around the cave. "Damn that sheriff in his castle."

"I bet it's drafty though, ain'it? You always hear about castles being drafty . . ." Allan tugged his cloak tighter around his arms. The other outlaws stared at him. Allan rethought what he had just said. "Damn the sheriff."

"Damn the sheriff," they all muttered.

"I'll build a fire," John moved to clear some of the dried thrush on the floor and pulled out the flint. "Who wants to go out for firewood?" Silence fell among the group as no one answered. Watching raindrops slid off each other's' clothes, they waited for someone else to volunteer.

"Fine, I'll go," Djaq picked up her sword and headed back outside. She loathed the English rain, hating the way it chilled her deep into her bones, yet regarded it with strange fascination. It was delicious and fresh, wild and unfamiliar. She was like a child who just learned to hold her breath; it burned, but the burning was too new to be recognized as pain.

"You know what mate, I haven't had a turn fetching wood for some time," someone muttered to the group before bounding up behind her. "'Ello there, Djaq."

"Allan," she acknowledged, too miserable and cold for his chatter.

They scoured the forest floor for dry twigs and branches, upturning logs and leaves. Djaq grabbed a piece of wood that was vaguely dry, and a large, dark beetle scrambled around the bark and up her arm. She plucked it up with long fingers and flicked it back onto the ground. Her feet sloshed in the mud. Water permeated her leather shoes and her toes clammed up in protest.

She moved further out, checking by tree trunks where wood was most likely to be dry. Under the thick canopy of leaves she scavenged a few pieces. Hopefully they would be dry enough to catch a light.

By now she was drenched. Her hair curled around her ears, slick with water. Rain slid down the strands of hair, running in rivulets into her eyes. Damn this English weather, she cursed.

She decided she had more than enough. If they wanted more, they could come out here themselves and fetch it. "Allan!" she called, the branches scratching her arms. She trekked to the cloaked figure standing between two trees. "Allan!"

He turned; bright blue eyes wide open in the rain. Water dripped down the tip of his nose.

"Ready to go back?" She was heaving, tired and wondering why on earth she had chosen to stay in England. What she wouldn't give for the familiar, Saracen sun.

Allan fumbled with the branches he was carrying, and a few slipped out of his grasp. "Erm. . ." His eyes flickered back and forth between her chest and the ground.

Djaq pulled her vest closer over her sopping white shirt and shifted the sticks she was carrying. Her nipples puckered as raindrops slipped down the elegant curve of her throat. She stared Allan's forehead until his eyes finally looked back up. Any longer and she might have boor a hole in his head. She marched back to the caves, her feet sloshing in puddles. Let Allan find his own way back.

She charged through the small waterfall of rain falling off the edge of the cave, and plopped the wood down by John. The big man sat on his knees, blowing gently on a small flame. In stony silence, she picked up her pack of things and slid down to sit against the wall. Who did these Englishmen think they were? How many times must she fight beside them in battle for them to accept her? Must she always be a woman to them? Things had been better in the army, when no one knew she was female. A bead of water rested in the dent above her upper lip, slipping slowly. She brushed it away angrily.

Her hair hung plastered to her face, hanging to her ears. It had been too long since she cut it. Living in the forest with a troop of outlawed men hadn't put personal hygiene on her list of priorities. Maybe she had thought she didn't have to keep up the masquerade, now they knew she was female. How stupid she had been. How naïve. What was happening to her?

Fishing through her bag of things, she reprimanded herself. She was growing too lenient, too relaxed. Any sign of femininity weakened her stance with the men. This was the longest she had stayed in one place for years, she wasn't about to lose it by reminding her comrades she had breasts. There wasn't much in her bag: a blanket, a cooking pan, a chunk of cheese wrapped in cloth, some excess string, a cache of medicinal herbs. At last, her hand grasped what she was looking for. A knife.

Unsheathing it quickly, she ignored Robin's sidelong glance. Setting her jaw, she grabbed a long lock hanging by her ear and sawed it off. It fell in pieces onto the cold stone floor, and she resisted the urge to laugh. Running her fingers through the back of her head, she hacked off more, feeling lighter with each cut. The knife slipped and nicked her ear, drawing blood, but she felt nothing.

The men watched her carefully. Their own hair hung matted in knots, some down to their shoulders. By now Allan had returned, placing his pile of wood carefully on John's fire before sitting down. Listening to nothing but the rain pour and the wind howl, they all simultaneously stared at and ignored the one woman in their midst.

With hair sheared close to her scalp, and blood blooming from her ear, she picked up the fallen strands. She crouched next to the fire, feeling the heat against her wet skin. Her pruned fingers picked up a black clipping. It curled in the air as it fell into the fire. Sputtering, the fire swallowed it, charring the strand and filling the air with an odor. Slowly, Djaq fed the fire the rest of her hairs, letting her hands dangle dangerously close the flame. They all tasted the burning scent, and watched the sparks consume each piece as Djaq burned the last reminder of her femininity.

Sauntering, Djaq strode back to her spot against the wall. With hair shorter than the rest of them, she drew her hood and drank deeply from her water skein. She grabbed the cheese in her bag and took a bite, before tossing it to Will. He bit into it. Then, still chewing, he passed it to John. As the rain continued to pour outside the cave, the outlaws passed around the food.

The water falling from the sky could not keep the acrid smell of burnt hair from their nostrils.


End file.
